What is true romance,
If not the acceptance
Of each other's collection of scars?

Guilt is a lone dark wolf.
It runs, ducks and weaves,
Daring you to pin it down.
Its doleful howl is unrelenting.
You long to put it out of its misery
But it is ever elusive,
Taunting you with its agility.

You can keep your basket of good intentions.
I say this without condescension.
It's just that I've got a small place;
I really can't spare the space.
Plus the basket seems rather flimsy
As if put together on a whimsy.
Now if you happen to have a sturdy crate of action,
I think I would be able to make an exception.

Loneliness - a desolate wilderness
Where many can be found,
Yet to each other remain unseen.

Grunting and growling,
Like a feral animal in a cage,
Her spirit lashes out,
Clawing at the bars of convention.

Hope is the smooth, clear blue sky above us.
Reality is the rocky, dusty dirt path beneath us.
We live somewhere in between,
Striving for something fulfilling,
Seeking guidance in trees of distraction,
At times suffocated by the murky air of despair.

But then we remember to look up
And gather strength from that undisturbed sea of blue,
Feeling warm bright rays of comfort.
Life is no longer foggy -
At least for the moment.

Uncertainty -
Its weighty sound belies its amorphous character.
It creeps up, breaks in and steals your peace of mind,
Like a stealthy burglar.

It laughs at your fruitless attempts to predict the future.
It knows you can only guess,
Only hope,
That what lies ahead
Is brighter than what came before.